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Say not, the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain ;
The enemy faints not, nor faileth.
And as things have been, they remain.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only
When daylight comes, comes in the light ;
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look ! the land is bright.